Some Days
by VickyVicarious
Summary: Some days, Lucius hated himself." Short, mildly depressing, character study.


Before you read anything, two things to mention: {1} I never really gave much thought to Lucius, more than was required, until I ran into other HP (D/G) fans that thought he was sexy. This made me ponder him, and while I still don't find him particularly sexy, I ended up with this focusing on him rather than his son, which is a first. {2} I am very fuzzy on the last two books; it's been a long time since I've had the chance to read them, and I read each one only once. So there may (probably will) be some characterization or event errors of some sort. Sorry 'bout that.

Oh, and also, this is basically set in the first chapter of _Deathly Hallows_ - you know, **The Dark Lord Ascending**.

Enjoy!

* * *

Some days, Lucius hated himself.

It was entirely un-Slytherin of him; Slytherins _never_ hated themselves. They defined the word 'selfish'. They didn't have the great angsty guilt-attacks like Gryffindors, nor were they bumbling do-good fools like Hufflepuffs. In fact, closest to Slytherins was Ravenclaw; their academic distance came closest to the simple lack of interest most Slytherins had of things outside themselves. Slytherins might behave however they wished – they might even help others, even, or commit _seemingly_ selfless acts of heroism, though that wasn't exactly frequent – as long as it was eventually in their own interest; but they didn't regret, and they didn't hate themselves.

It, too, was not a Malfoy trait. 'Malfoy' had always been to 'Slytherin', as 'Slytherin' was to 'selfish'; that is, the living definition of the word. Malfoys never showed fear, hesitation, or weakness; and they never _felt_ guilt, self-hate, or pity. It was as simple as that, and always had been.

But some days, Lucius hated himself.

Not so much for his involvement with Lord Voldemort as one would expect, nor, either, for his many and varied crimes against the world. He _was_ a true Malfoy in terms of his beliefs: of mud-bloods' inferiority; of his – and his family's – own _su_periority; of the simple truth that when push came to shove, his money could, and would, solve any scrape he found himself in, and that most times, threats also helped; of everything that had inevitably led him down the path of the snake in school, straight to the Dark Lord after it.

He believed it all – but some days, Lucius hated himself nevertheless.

In the end, there was a simple reason for it, one that, despite its simplicity, was entirely unexpected and at moments, still took him by surprise: his family.

He was never exactly verbose about it, certainly, but he loved his family. Loved them more deeply than he would have expected of himself, and if there were ever a cause he would be completely selfless for, it would be for them. In public, many would classify his attitude towards them as 'cold'; 'unfeeling', even, but when it came to his family, Lucius was as far from unfeeling as it was possible to be.

And that was why, some days, he hated himself. Because even though he believed in his cause, or at least used to, his involvement with Voldemort had never turned out well for them, not even in the beginning. Narcissa was quietly furious, though of course intelligent enough not to resist; The Dark Lord and his Death Eaters were not enemies you wanted to make, especially by way of betrayal. They always got the betrayers in the end, and it was never pretty – Lucius should know, as he'd hunted down several of them himself.

And now they were here, in his house, Voldemort himself holding Lucius's wand, mocking and belittling the Malfoy name and using their manor as his headquarters. And had it not been for his family, Lucius would certainly not have liked it; but he wouldn't have felt this hate: this utter burning desire to see the good conquer the bad, for once; to have all his old enemies win, for his side to lose; for Voldemort to just _die_, completely and forever this time.

It was not fear, which motivated this hate. Nor was it offended pride, though his pride _was_ suffering. It wasn't humiliation or exasperation or depression or a heart of gold that had been hidden all his life and was just deciding to shine through now; Lucius Malfoy was as much the evil man as he had ever been.

The thing motivating the desire to see Voldemort fall, and causing him so much self-hate – the thing that had caused several similar, if less intense, days of self-hate in the past years – it was love. Love, for his family. And it was the look on Draco's face, as he sat there, tall and stiff and utterly terrified, and the look on Narcissa's too, the quiet calm and steely control that covered what he knew was a woman desperate for escape.

Lucius Malfoy saw these faces, saw his family, and he hated himself.

But what could he do, but carry on as he always had? He couldn't actually _do_ anything, not now – and that caused a healthy amount of regret all on its own – it was too late. As the saying went, he'd made his bed: time to lie in it. And his family would be dragged down with him, there was no way around that. So he just suppressed the feeling.

Some days, Lucius hated himself, but it never lasted long.


End file.
